It starts as a speck of dust
You try to mop it
And the false pane gives away
The floor is no more
Abhorrent basement
It's filled with filth of yore
Stench of a sad life so strong
It pulls you in with a quicksand's grip
You return to the ground floor,
The pane shut and the filth locked
But all you can see, feel, and find
Is how the floor is built on a sea of darkness
Now your days go by
Anxious and full of nerves
Suddenly, the fragility of the floor
Is not an irrational worry
What's holding the floor up?
What happens when it vaporizes?
Will the shadows hold you hostage,
Or run away, fearful of your light?
YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoetryJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them
